Six microwaves in seven months

If Svalbard ever goes up in a mushroom cloud, it's a good bet I'll be at Ground Zero.

Something I've done is obviously displeasing the Radiation Gods, because I've been here seven months and now bought six new microwave ovens. Most of them have melted down in a variety of entertaining and/or terrifying ways due to what I can only describe as my anti-Midas touch.

It's not like I'm nuking cans of Spam, live pets or other things that respond poorly to atomic stimulation. I've owned microwaves in other parts of the world for years and can't recall a single one burning out. Nor is it a case of hitting some button at the wrong time, as this chronology shows:

- The first I bought when I spent a few weeks here during the 2008 Polarjazz festival, deciding the cost of cooking in my apartment at the Radisson would be cheaper than eating all my meals out. I left it behind, telling the hotel staff one of them could have it or they could just leave it for future guests. Had I known what was coming several months from then, maybe I'd have stuck it in storage somewhere.

- The second was purchased to replace one at the Galleri Svalbard shortly after I moved here in November of 2008. I touched the door of the microwave in the kitchen of the downstairs studio area and everything went dark. Groping my way around in an attempt to find a circuit box, I thought it was merely a strange coincidence. But when I finally got the lights back on and went back to the kitchen, the microwave was dead as a doornail. While Elise, the owner, was incredibly nice and insistent I not buy a replacement, my guilt (and desire to get a new one quickly) dictated otherwise.

- Microwave three was purchased just before moving into my permanent flat. It did OK for a few weeks, despite a weird tendency to slowly destroy any plastic container put in it. On at least two or three occasions I tried to remove a container of boiling water only to have the bottom of the container fall out. Despite my certainty the microwave would short circuit from the resulting flood, it kept going. Instead, its fate was sealed by a couple of eggs (another item I seem to be cursed with up here) I was trying to poach. One of the yolks exploded and – while I'm new to the concept of egg shrapnel – it turns out to be potent stuff. Bits of yellow and white were impossibly lodged in every tiny ventilation hole possible. After cleaning things as best as possible I fired the oven up again, at which point it gagged on whatever bits had made it well into the circuitry, kicked out a few sparks and died.

- I lived off stovetop cooking for a few days after that because Svalbardbutikken's formerly full shelves of microwaves were empty for some reason (I kept thinking they must be a popular Christmas gift, although I couldn't understand why). But I was headed to Tromsø immediately afterward, where I purchased Fluke Nuke No. 4. It actually fared the best, lasting until two days ago when a dazzling display of sparks suddenly started emitting from the top, followed by that burned-out electrical smell you get when you're trying to make spaghetti in a popcorn machine.

- It was off to Svalbardbutikken yesterday for Oven No. 5, which turned out to have a useful lifespan of about 30 seconds. Almost immediately after firing it up an ear-deafening grinding sounded, causing me to lunge for the "stop" button before the thing turned into an H-bomb. I took a final dare this morning just to make sure it wasn't a fluke and, after about three more seconds of grinding, it quieted down and seemed to function normally – only it wasn't doing anything to generate any heat.

– So I exchanged it for Model No. 6 today, which is now in the trunk of my car unless it's somehow come to life and gone on a joyride.

I suppose smarter people would at some point simply give up and learn how to saute. But I've now got a morbid fascination, plus possibly material for a thesis proving the existence of paranormal activity.

And, yes, I know where my fire extinguisher is.

Who wants to strip-search me?

Back in the U.S., I'd be a walking drug dealer right now.

I stopped by the apotek for some ibuprofen, which I occasionally seem to need in unhealthy quantities, and it turns out 400mg tablets are available right over the counter. That probably means little to the vast majority of people who don't read more than the name on the bottle, but it's twice the dosage of what's permissible without a prescription in the U.S.

For a 13-year-old girl there, this was not a small thing.

The girl, now 19, went before the U.S. Supreme Court recently in a case where a male school official ordered her strip-search when another student – who was busted for having those 400mg pills – claimed the girl was carrying drugs as well. The rat turned out to be false, but not before the girl shredded every stitch proving it.

The conservative majority on the court appears to be leaning toward a ruling backing the school's zero-tolerance policy on such matters, rejecting lower court decisions that the girl's rights were violated. The irony is the student caught with the drugs who made the false accusations escaped punishment.

So my question of the day: What happens when I go over to Longyearbyen School to interview a teacher or student, or to take the Norwegian classes they offer, and I've got these pills on me? I know Svalbard has an expel-if-caught-with-drugs policy, but my guess is it's more sensible than what's happening across the puddle.

Eggs for a nuclear village?

The strangest thing I've seen so far in Svalbard isn't the polar bear crossing the road in front of the school, ignoring the pedestrian a hundred meters away walking toward him.

It isn't the whale stir-fry at Mary-Ann's Polarrigg (hint: bypass the tourist instinct; the traditional Thai dishes are far superior).

It's the carton of eggs I bought at the supermarket.

Twelve eggs, 22 yolks.

I should have known something was up when the eggs themselves were genetic monstrosities, closer to goose-size than chicken-size. I cracked the first one and no big deal – I've seen double yolks on rare occasions before.

But when I cracked another and the same thing happened, I sort of freaked out.

There's a scene in Jack London's "A Thousand Dozen" (part of this collection of short stories) where the main character, having gone through the nine circles of Hell to get a bunch of eggs to the Canadian Arctic during the gold rush, goes into an insane egg-breaking furry after a customer complains the eggs are rotten. My derangement was considerably shorter and less messy, but probably not far off in spectator entertainment value. I cracked all of them open in a bowl and, aside from one "normal" specimen, all contained double shots.

I couldn't bring myself to eat them, as if I could absorb that much cholesterol. For some reason the word "radiation" wouldn't leave my mind. Not that I've been much affected by tales of Chernobyl and the fallout over Scandinavia during Russia's nuke tests during the Cold War.

But, like the person unable to stop staring at a car accident, I went back to the store the next day for a couple more cartons. Nothing. And nothing like it since. Which makes me wonder if anybody else encountered that particular henhouse. And if they now have a third ear – or maybe just an extra-vibrant "mood" – to show for it.